Deliveries

Fiction by T Kira Madden

SHE is not blind but getting there. She knows this. She
knows it by the way people touch her like a banged-up porcelain doll. She knows
it because she will be a teenager soon. She knows it so bad that she’s given up
looking.

HE is fucking his palm, thinking of
Judy Garland. He is wondering what makes a bad man so bad. He is wondering what
makes old, old. He is wondering how he became both so fast, like this, without
even noticing.

She is blindfolded every morning.
Upon waking, the Instructors knot thick bandages over the children’s faces,
asking them to bow their shoes, tie their ties, listen for space. In class the
children clench ribbons and strut circles around Instructor 12, wrapping her
like a maypole mummy. This is time, This
is direction, This is a cycle. If one subject trips the rest are told to
step over the little body. You should
feel it before you fall.

There
is a secret on the left side of her bed. She once asked an Instructor: What do you call something you want for
yourself? She usually kept it covered with a picture of the president. But
at night, it’s all hers, the small numbers carved into the wooden frame. She
traces it with her fingers, licks the dust inside the lines. She wonders who
did it, what tool, if it was a secret for them too.

The bars of a cell are nothing like
the movies. Before movies stopped, he had seen them all. The bars in here go on
forever. He thinks about this when he counts them, at lights-out, sitting in
the dead dark. With every year he swears there are more. He swears he could
measure his life by them, like tree rings, like teeth.

When she can’t sleep, she writes. She is writing the story of her life in
a small white notebook. This is not allowed. There once lived a girl in a
school with no windows. This is the only home the girl knows. She has
many Instructors without any names. They are teaching her to be perfect.
Her eyes will be removed soon, even though they are fine. Everyone in the
school calls her pretty. She’s been told she will change the world, soon
enough, soon. She wears a number. It matches the secret on the side of
her bed. Once, someone taught her to dance. She thinks she must have
dreamt this.

He is arranging a picture with the food on his plate: a tongue made of
peas and baby carrot fangs. He could have been an artist. He is telling
his cellmate: Yes, I could have been. His cellmate replies: So could’ve
I. They have been living together for 58 years. They are pretending to
be strangers. Sometimes, at night, they try on new lives: I once dug up
Pompeii. I once saved a broken bird. My mother used to love me and need
me and kiss me hard but I’d forgotten ’til now. And anyway, she only told
me once.

Outside the school with no windows, the world is black and white. She
has now seen two glimpses of it. The other subjects are sleeping and
she is looking through a keyhole at a room she shouldn’t know. The
Instructors are gathered around a glowing square with small black and
white people inside. They are using words like: Hush, Volume, Play.

He is talking in his sleep in his last sleep here. He is saying: Love me,
Love me. In the bunk under his, his cellmate says: What’s the point.
There is a mouse running around, sniffing for things left behind. The
night guard is on the phone. On the phone, the night guard is saying:
You awake, Sweetheart? It’s me.

On the operating table, they tell her to count back from 100. There is
a new nurse and an old doctor. The new nurse fumbles with a needle.
The old doctor holds the girl’s hand, says: Backward, relax, nice and
slow. She is thinking about what the Instructors have told her: It’ll be like
sleepwalking from now on, that’s all. These are the last things she will
ever see: a dirty lamp staring at her, the long needle fishing for a vein,
rubber gloves, metal claws, a small orange cooler that will take them
away. The old doctor lifts his mask. He is saying: Just keep counting ’til
you can’t.

On the operating table, they tell him to stay still. There is a new nurse
and an old doctor. The new nurse is strapping leather belts over his
wrists. The old doctor says: One last checkup and you’re free. But he
has never seen a doctor in all these years. Not when he hacked up
blood for days, not when something felt amiss with his heart, not when
a cheating poker hand resulted in a broken arm. They will not answer
any of his questions. He cannot remember a time anyone did. The new
nurse is pulling more leather over his shoulders, neck, mouth, locking
his head into place. A small orange cooler and black trash bag lie next
to him. The old doctor lifts metal claws up to the lamp, pulls a mask
down over his mouth, mumbles something about having to do this on
Thanksgiving. He uses the word: Ungrateful.

On the operating table, they flip a coin. The new nurse says: Call it. The
old doctor says: Heads. The coin lands. The new nurse loses. The old
doctor leaves the room, turning on a stereo by the door. Soft violins and
a flute. The nurse fingertips the bloody bandage. She pulls a plush teddy
bear from a box beneath the table and places it in the girl’s sleeping
arms: Poor, poor little creature. In a deep breath, she crosses herself,
says a prayer and whispers down to the child’s swollen face: Time to
wake up, isn’t the music lovely? Outside the room, the doctor waits for
a cry.

On the operating table, he wakes in a jolt. There is a new nurse and an
old doctor. The new nurse says: We have given you the greatest gift. The
old doctor says: Now get going, Go. He doesn’t recognize this room,
these words, his own feet, the headache. They are using words like:
Miracle, Memory, Saved. They are lying. He is handed a mirror, a history
book, maps of the outside streets, sunglasses. They come from a box
next to a box full of bears. Walking toward the hospital exit, he cannot
remember ever remembering. The new nurse shakes his hand, says:
Now go be a good man. Enjoy the new view. At the door, he catches
his own reflection in the glass. He has never seen this face, this smile,
these bright blue eyes that don’t quite fit.

She is living in a new tower in the school with no windows. They call it
Section-B. She knows this is the home for blind boys and girls — where
gifts arrive, Sorry’s are whimpered, no more secrets reside. She is
able to come and go as she pleases. She has decided to spend her
days in bed. She listens to others stumble to the ground, cry for help,
smack into the walls. She cannot remember the last time she moved.
The Section-B Instructors seem to have given up, yet still they tell her:
Do not give up! Do not! In this new home, they do not wear numbers.
Instead, they are called, The Blessings.

You are a chosen one! You are a lucky one! You will be remembered as
someone special. The town has welcomed him with open arms, open
homes, Thank you’s. Everybody loves him.

She trusts food the least. She can no longer tell what will happen in one
bite. It’s New Year’s Eve and they have ordered the finest. She hears
other Blessings slurp and chew on their meals, asking for more, getting
used to it. Instructor 34 asks to feed her an oyster. He tilts her head
back, Open wide, as if to lick the ceiling, Here it comes now, such a treat!
But she only feels salt and slime. She thinks: This is what a man must
taste like. She spits it into her fist.

When he can’t sleep, he writes. He is writing the story of his life in a
leather-bound notebook. This is not allowed. There once lived a man
who slept through his whole life. This is the only fact the man knows. He
does not know his own name, where he came from, who he was. He’s
been told it’s a second chance. He is doing his best to be perfect, doing
his best to be a good man. He is happy. He is new. Once, he made a million
sculptures. He thinks he must have dreamt them up.

She is writing, This is something true, with a black fountain pen. She
guesses at the letters, their placement on her desk. They were lying.
Believe me, they were, pushing harder.

These are the ones that he treasures most: The fuzzy heads of the elderly
(how if you squint hard enough, they look like Q-tips with legs), the chubby
legs of babies, their rosy-proud mothers, the grains and swirls in wooden
surfaces (like magnificent, bigger thumbprints), the textures and layers of
a sandwich, the way the rain has its own language (sometimes a hush, sometimes a coughing old man), doughnuts, the big fat moon, church
steeples, the romance of a beating ceiling fan (a blur unless you focus
on one blade), ticking clocks, the President’s wave, the color white, the
curves of a seashell, shiny new shoes, this leather-bound notebook, the
secrets written inside.

This is the first time she has left in 10 months. She cannot imagine
being happy. She is tapping her way out the gate, thinking: I will never
be happy again. Sitting on a bench at the corner, she can still hear her
Instructor’s voice: Remember this bench! Only 20 paces! Practice! She
is guessing that it’s late at night. She is pretending to be sure of it.
Tonight, she writes letters: Dear Instructors, Who are you? Dear School,
Who made you up? Dear Mr. President, Why? Dear Young Nurse, What
was that sound? Dear Blessings, I wish we all knew better. Dear Cane,
You are not a friend. Dear Strangers on the Street, Help. Dear Lucy,
Where are you hiding? Dear Love I’ll Never Know, What do you look like?
Dear Parents, I know you exist somewhere, somewhere. Dear Blinking
Moon, Remember me? Dear Black and White Faces, Why couldn’t you
just stay bad? Dear Secret, Your number was only my deadline. Dear
Night Sky, At least we are the same. Dear Dreams, Once I was a dancer.
Dear Notebook, I’m sorry for tearing out these pages, I hope it doesn’t
hurt.

Dear Man with my eyes, How is it?

He has received a letter. They have sent him job applications, pamphlets
and books for each one. He is filling out every page: Senator,
Scientist, Butcher, Doctor. He is imagining these future versions of himself.
He is drawing a star on his favorite. This, he thinks, is my second
chance. He is hoping for students who behave.

She is talking in her sleep saying: Save me, Save me. In the room next
to hers, a Blessing says: Who could ever. They are all dreaming dreams
of things left behind. An Instructor is on the phone. On the phone, the
Instructor is saying: I don’t sleep so well these days.

He wants to know how autumn feels. He likes the way people have told
him about it: Autumn, slowly, their mouths shaped like a yawn. They
have told him that trees change colors, that days become shorter, that
electricity happens in the air, like magic. He’s been preparing for this
walk, first day of the season, to watch it all happen at once.

There was no chance of leaving today. She tries to tell them this. But
they tell her that autumn air will be good for her, that it will make her
feel whole again. The other Blessings plead: Come for a walk, you don’t
talk much anymore. Come, come take a walk with us.

Nothing appears to be different. He does not see the trees choose new
colors or sparks fly through the air. He does not see the world change
or any hints of it coming. What he sees are the same old couples drinking
coffee on their porches. The same old couples snapping rubber
bands, unraveling headlines. He walks for hours without ever stopping.
He walks by the church and wonders what prayers are inside. He walks
along the river and thinks of life beneath the surface. He walks through
town and sees briefcases, locks, sweet mothers and their strollers,
blank walls of buildings that stretch on forever. He sees a group of
blind children also walking, deep sunken holes where their eyes used
to be, long wooden canes tap-dancing the sidewalk. The sun shines off
a bald head leading the pack, their Instructor, his old friend. He does
not know this.

She is already tired of walking. Voices on the street have been stopping
them all day: Little darlings! Little Pets! Here come the little Sleepwalkers!
It’s true what they said, the autumn air feels right, but she can only think
about what she knows she is missing. Instructor B-41 tries to comfort
them: Leaves haven’t turned yet. Not one bit! Now, they are walking
back home to the only home she knows. Single file, along the curb, she
hears cars whizzing by her side, that tap tap tap beneath her, her own
breath slowing down. She keeps listening for signs of the sunset, signs
of the season changing, any sign to keep on walking. She is waiting for
the wind to die.

His legs have fallen asleep from going so long. He sits down on the
curb to watch for more; birds jumping along trees as if their leaves were
alive, cars rolling past like chariots, the sun collapsing down, down.
The wind has grown stronger since morning. Power lines tremble. He
notices a swirl of papers fly down the street and wonders where they
are all going, where they came from, all the floating white. Then he
remembers: Electricity in the air. Fax machines. This must be how they
work. Legs now forgotten, he springs to a chase, collecting as much as
he can hold in clumsy hands. He folds through the secret messages: A
Missing Cat flyer, crumpled receipts, a birthday card without a signature,
an eviction notice, greasy napkins, angry notes to unsung heroes,
barely legible. Why would anybody send these? He doesn’t find any love
letters, pictures, nothing kind in all this mess. Scanning the street to
make sure he’s alone, he buries each piece in his coat pocket. He feels
ready to walk again, toward the day’s fading light, toward a metal fence
in the distance, knowing he will keep these forever. A good deed, he
thinks, to stop all the sad deliveries.

The children didn’t see it happen. But what they all heard was a car
horn screaming, her wood cane snapping, footsteps running closer,
their own hearts beating, the Instructor’s voice saying Sorry. A strange
man’s voice: Dear God, Nobody look.

He stares at the girl. The girl cannot stare back. She is not gone but
getting there — she knows this. He moves in close, grasps the child by
her elbows, whispers Save us, Save us, and they stay this way. Bracing
themselves. Holding one another in the middle of the street. Both of
them wondering why.

T Kira Madden is a writer, photographer, and amateur magician living in New York
City. Her work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, The
Collagist, and Fourteen Hills. She currently teaches writing at The Doe Fund to
homeless and formerly incarcerated individuals and at Gotham Writers' Workshop.